Saying Goodbye
by fizzingwhisbee
Summary: PostRENT. Seven months after Roger's death, and Mark still hasn't let him go. Can be viewed as MR, although not necessarily.


Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. If I did, I would have a hell of a lot of money. I also don't the characters. If I did, Mark and Roger would join Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in the slash pesto pit. I do, however, own the situation. :)

Leaves crunched under Mark's feet as he walked down the street, camera tucked safely under his arm. People passed him without a second glance, hurrying towards their destinations.

Mark wasn't going anywhere in particular. He often took long walks around Alphabet City, trying to escape the oppressive silence of the loft. The lightheartedness that had filled the apartment even during Roger's depression had left, leaving it cold and dark.

It had been seven months since Roger had died. Mark's last link to his old friends had finally faded away, connected to machines in a stark white hospital while his song played on the radio.

_Mark slipped his hand into Roger's and held on tightly. The once-strong musician was now too weak to close his fingers around his friend's, but a small smile crept up onto his face. "Don't look so sad, Marky. Humor me."_

_Mark tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he shook his head. "I can't."_

_With immense effort, Roger bent his fingers and grasped Mark's hand. "Stop acting like it's the end. It's not, doofus."_

_Mark his eyes filling with tears as the sudden realization of how much he would miss Roger hit him. "I love you, Rog."_

_"You're such a sap,"Roger replied, smiling. After a moment, his smile faded and his face became serious. "I love you too, Marky. But you don't have to worry about me. If anything, I should worry about you. Don't think you're alone. You're not._

_"You're gonna be famous, your film will be everywhere, and you'll have dozens of girls swarming at your feet." At this, Mark snorted. The girls had never been interested in him, preferring to gather around Roger's tall, handsome physique._

_"Get your camera," Roger said, inclining his head to his bedside table, where Mark's 16mm sat. _

_Mark picked up the camera, torn between wanting to film Roger as much as possible before he was gone and not wanting to have film of Roger so sick. He switched it on and pointed it at his friend._

_Roger winked at the camera, his hollow cheeks stretching as he grinned. "Close on Roger, who was incredibly stupid and has finally landed himself in the hospital," he sang to the camera before coughing violently. The tremors shook his frail body. After a moment, the coughing subsided and he turned back to the lens. "You don't have to worry about me, Mark. I'll be with Collins, and Angel, and Mimi, and April. Make sure you take care of yourself. Stop thinking about others and put yourself first every once in a while. You deserve a little selfishness now and then. Have some fun. And call your mother for once!"_

_"You can't talk, Mr. Davis," Mark replied, smiling sadly as he set the camera back on the table._

_"Oh well," Roger said dismissively. His breathing became a little more labored and a small glint of fear appeared in his eyes. "Do it anyways, or I'll be forced to come back and haunt you. Don't make the stupid mistakes I did. Talk to your mother, take care of yourself, and go on to do great things." He turned his head slightly towards the radio that was in the room, which had just began playing 'Your Eyes.' "I had my one great song. Time for your one great film. You're brilliant, you'll make us proud."_

_With that, Roger took one great shuddering breath. He smiled weakly at Mark, then closed his eyes as he exhaled, his grip on Mark's hand loosening._

_The tears that had filled Mark's eyes spilled down his cheeks. He shook Roger's body, trying to rouse him. "ROGER! You can't leave me! Wake up, dammit!" he yelled. He was dimly aware of Roger's song on the radio ending, fading away with Roger's last breath._

The weeks following Roger's death would always be a blur in Mark's mind. He vaguely remembered being refusing to be pried from Roger's cold, lifeless body.Makingthe call toMaureen and Joanne in LA to tell them the news. They had flown in and Joanne, ever the levelheaded one, had made the funeral arrangements while Maureen choreographed a memorial dance. Mark did nothing. Most of his time was spent staring blankly at the wall. He felt lost without his best friend's wry comments and incessant guitar playing.

He had felt so lost that he hadn't even attended the funeral. Mark's specialty had been detaching his feelings from himself, and going to the funeral meant he would have to accept that Roger was gone. He would be vulnerable, an open book to the world, just like he was that night in the hospital. So after Maureen and Joanne left the loft, Mark continued staring at the wall, clutching Roger's Fender in his lap.

The wind picked up, startling Mark out of his reverie. He hadn't even realized how far he had walked. There was a gate in front of him. The rough ridges and smooth rock of hundreds of gravestones spread out beyond it.

He knew this place. Mimi was buried here; Roger had often come here to visit her and occasionally brought Mark along. Joanne and Maureen had buried Roger here as well, in a plot next to Mimi, in regards to one of Roger's last requests.

Mark stood in front of the gate for a long time, feeling an unseen force drawing him in. He looked down at his camera, still tucked under his arm, and clicked it on."The cemetary where Roger and Mimi are buried." He turned the camera on himself."Pan to Mark, feeling creepy vibes pushing him in."

He looked towards the gate again, tentatively pushing it open. Gathering as much courage as he had, Mark stepped into the cemetary. Once inside, he let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.He felt too scared to move any further butfelt his feet move of their own accord, propelling him towards where he knew he would find Roger.

Finally reaching his destination, he took a moment to smile at Mimi's headstone, emblazoned with her famous motto, "No Day But Today." Then he turned his attention to the large gray rock beside it.

Mark knelt down in front of the granite stone, reaching forward and letting his fingers run over the letters. It was so final, seeing his best friend's name carved in stone. It was carved into the hearts of so many, now long gone.

He rocked back on his heels and sat down, staring at the stone and thinking. He was completely oblivious to the time going by. At long last, he spoke.

"It's too quiet without you, Rog. The loft is so empty. Every noise I make echoes. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think I hear you plucking at your guitar strings. But when I run to your room... you're not there. I can't even remember a time when you _weren't _there. And with Maureen and Joanne living in LA now... I've got no one." Mark ran his fingers through his hair, then played with the blades of grass brushing his feet. He could feel his eyes watering asstruggled not to lose control."You had to go and leave, just like everyone else! Why do I have to be the only one to survive? How come I'm the only one who didn't change?" The tears began to fall freely as the dam he had built up inside burst open. "I had to sit and watch while this happened, letting valuable time pass me by. I didn't tell you how much you meant to me until it was too late. I hate knowing my best friend is gone, I hate knowing that I didn't appreciate you like I should have, and I hate that I let you and April go out and shoot up every night while I pretended not to notice! If I had done something about it, maybe you wouldn't be six feet below me in a wooden box!" He buried his face in his hands, chocking with sobs that shook his whole body. Hesat there for a long time, finally allowing his emotions to escape- his love for Roger, for Mimi, for Collins, Angel, and April. His guilt for not stopping Roger when he realized what they were doing. The grief he felt now that they were all gone.

After what seemed like hours, Mark sat up, a few stray sobs still choking him. It felt good to cry, to let it all out. Everything he had been holding in, the years of emotion carefully tucked away, was gone. He looked down at his camera and let his fingers run over it, remembering. _"Why am I the witness? And when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone?" _he sang softly.

A gentle wind buffeted his drying cheeks, the same that had pushed him to enter the cemetary. Suddenly, Mark felt every sad thought leave him, a delicate, peaceful feeling replacing them. He stood up as a gentle rain began to fall. Stretching his arms out, he spun slowly, not caring about anything but the soft droplets landing on his face. Roger had always hated warm rain, saying it was "like God pissing on your parade." But Mark loved it, reveled in it. "You've got to dance in the rain, Roger. Its good for the soul," he had always said. Like clockwork, Roger would reply, "Good for getting sick, you mean." But despite his moaning and groaning, he would always let himself be dragged outside by his arm and stand in the downpour with his smiling best friend.

The rain disappeared just as quickly as it came. Mark looked up at the sky, knowing it was his friend's way of saying goodbye.

"Thanks, Rog."


End file.
